The Hilton Apron Mystery

My sister Kate drove me down to Heathrow and I sat beside her putting the final touches to a film script. She parked outside International Departures, I wrote ‘The End’, handed the scruffy pages to her and ran inside to catch a plane to Australia. I had only a small bag and it was mostly full of crumpled, dirty clothes. When I arrived at my hotel, the Perth Hilton, I reached eagerly for the laundry list. I reproduce the list below. The prices are in Australian dollars, but the prices aren't what caused me to laugh out loud.

Dress	$13.50
Skirt	$8.50
Jacket	$10.50
Blouse	$8.00
Slacks	$8.50
Jeans	$8.50
Tracksuit	$15.50
Apron	$8.50
Woollens	$8.50

Did you spot it? Apron. What kind of woman is it who takes an apron to a five-star hotel? Picture the scene. This woman arrives at reception, she checks in, is given a key. A porter is summoned. He takes her bag, shows her to the lift, they chat. He leads the way to the room, opens the door, the woman gasps. The room is sumptuous; the bathroom is spotless; the towels are virgin white; and the marble surfaces sparkle. The porter shows her the minibar and opens the sliding doors. The woman steps on to the terrace and looks at the view. She then hands him a tip and he goes.

She puts her clothes away, then takes a bath, dries herself and wraps herself in the white bathrobe she finds behind the bathroom door. She fixes herself a gin and tonic, then makes several international telephone calls. The woman is talking to her employees, checking the fluctuations of various financial institutions.

After discussing a deal worth several million yen, she finds she has a couple of hours before her first business meeting with a Perth property developer. She goes on to the terrace and looks over at the land she intends to buy. It is on the bank of the Swan River; she intends to build a tasteful theme park there.

However, conscious that she is encroaching on a man's world, she looks at the aprons she has brought with her. All six are attractive but she selects the blue one with the fluffy kitten on the front. She puts it on then takes out a large toiletry bag. Inside is Mr Sheen, a duster, a scrubbing brush and a bottle of Windolene. The woman proceeds to clean the already immaculate room. Then, throwing the dirty apron into the laundry bag, she showers and dresses in her power suit, picks up her briefcase and goes out to buy herself a slice of Perth's redevelopment.

As she passes reception, the concierge hands her a sheath of faxes. She glances at them as she settles into the back seat of her hired limousine. Apparently there is a small apron factory for sale in the north of England. She picks up the car phone and speaks to Edgar Harbottle, the managing director of Feminine Aprons Ltd. After a brief negotiation she buys the company. Mr Harbottle says, ‘I don't think you'll regret it, madam. Women will always need aprons, even in these post-feminist days.’

The woman is surprised at Mr Harbottle's grasp of sexual politics. He hadn't sounded like a man with such fine sensibilities. The driver of the limousine turns round and leers, ‘I like to see my missis in an apron, at the sink; gets me all of a doo-da, know whaddi mean, Sheila?’ He winks a horrible, salacious wink and the woman brusquely orders him to keep his eyes on the road, and tells him that her name is Eve, not Sheila. The democratic driver is not intimidated by the woman's refined English accent. ‘Nah,’ he says, ‘women are all the same with a bag over their heads and wearing an apron.’

After a successful meeting the woman returns to her room, puts another apron on and cleans the bath and washbasin. She then throws this essential garment into the laundry bag and writes ‘2' in the box marked ‘Apron’.

This story is, of course, a fantasy, but the Perth Hilton laundry list is fact. Explanations on a postcard, please.